The Pale Meridian
The departure was not a ceremony but a rupture, a tearing of the fabric that held the university together, and it happened while the rain lashed against the high, arched windows of the lecture hall, blurring the view of the ivy-choked quad into a smear of grey and green. Thomas Bradshaw stood by the door, his fingers white-knuckled around the handle, watching his colleague, Arthur Penhaligon,...
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